Rumours: The Dishonoured Copelands: The Fallen Greek Bride (The Disgraced Copelands) / His Defiant Desert Queen (The Disgraced Copelands) / Her Sinful Secret (The Disgraced Copelands)

He’s always done this to you,she lectured herself.He seduced you with his eyes long before he ever touched you, but that doesn’t mean anything. It’s lust. He’s good at sex. That doesn’t mean he should be your husband.

Morgan returned downstairs, head high. As she approached the patio through the dining room, the sunset bathed the patio in soft golden light. The small, round dining table seemed to float above the shimmering green tiles on the patio. The same green tiles extended all the way into the dining room and from the kitchen she caught a whiff of the most delicious aromas—tomato and onion, garlic, olive oil, herbs—even as the breeze rustled her skirts, tugging at her air, whispering over her skin.

So much light and color and sound.

So much sensation. So much emotion. It was wonderful and terrible … bittersweet. Drakon and Villa Angelica had made her feel alive again.

Drakon rose as she stepped out onto the patio. “The sun is almost gone,” he said, holding her chair for her.

She glanced out at the sea, and he was right. The bright red ball of sun had disappeared into the water. “I did miss it,” she said, hoping she sounded properly regretful as she sat back down.

“Maybe next time,” he said, with mock sympathy.

She looked up at him and then away, aware that he was playing her game with her. Pretending she’d wanted a photo when they both knew she just needed to escape him.

“I’ll have to keep my phone close by,” she said, reaching for her water glass and taking a quick sip.

His gaze collided with hers and then held, his expression one of lazy amusement. “Photos really help one remember things.”

She felt herself grow warm. “I have a purely professional interest in the scenery.”

“Is that so?”

She hated the way one of his black eyebrows lifted. Hated that curl of his lips. It was sardonic, but also quite sexy, and she was sure he knew it. “I use them for inspiration, not souvenirs,” she said coolly, wanting to squash him, and his amusement. There was no reason for him to take pleasure in her discomfiture. No reason for him to act superior.

“Interesting,” he drawled, and Morgan had to restrain herself from kicking him beneath the table because she knew he didn’t mean it. And he didn’t believe her. He probably was sitting there arrogantly thinking she was completely hung up on him … and imagining she was obsessing about having great sex with him … which was ludicrous because she wasn’t thinking about having great sex with him anymore. At least not when she was talking about the scenery and inspiration.

“I use the inspiration for my work,” she said defiantly, not even sure why she was getting so upset. “But you probably don’t consider it work. You probably think it’s silly. Superficial.”

“I never said that.”

“Perhaps you didn’t say it, but you think it. You know you do.”

“I find it interesting that you feel compelled to put words into my mouth.”

His ability to be so calm and detached when she was feeling so emotional made her even more emotional. She leaned toward him. “Surely you’ve wondered what drove you to marry a flighty woman like me … a woman so preoccupied with frivolous things.”

“Are you flighty?”

“You must think so.”

He leaned forward, too, closing the distance between them. “I’m not asking you to tell me what I think. I’m asking you—are you flighty?”

Her chin jerked up. “No.”

“Are you preoccupied with frivolous things?” he persisted.

Her cheeks burned hot and her eyes felt gritty. “No.”

“So you’re not flighty or frivolous?”

“No.”

His eyes narrowed. “Then why would I think you are?”

She had to close her eyes, overwhelmed by pain and the wave of grief that swept over her.

“Morgan?”

She gave her head a small shake, refusing to open her eyes until she was sure they were perfectly dry. “I am sorry,” she said huskily. “You deserved better than me.”

“And I’d like to hear more about your jewelry and your ideas, unless you’re determined to hold onto this bizarre fantasy of yours that I don’t care for you or what’s going on inside that beautiful, but complicated head.”

She suddenly seethed with anger. Why was he so interested in her thoughts now, when he hadn’t been interested in anything but her body when they’d lived together? “I loved what I did,” she said shortly. “I was really proud of my work, and I am still proud of those three collections.”

She glared at him, waiting for him to speak, but he simply sat back in his chair and looked at her, and let the silence grow, expand and threaten to take over.

The silence was beginning to feel uncomfortable and he was examining her a little too closely. She felt herself grow warm, too warm. “They were jewelry, yes,” she said, rushing now to fill the silence, “but they were also miniature works of art, and each collection had a theme and each individual piece told a story.”

“And what were those stories?”

“Life and death, love and loss, hope and despair …” Her voice faded, and she looked away, heart aching, because the collections had really been about him, them, their brief fierce love that became so very dangerous and destructive.

“I liked them all, but my favorite collection was your last one. The one you called a failure.”

Her head jerked up and she had to blink hard to keep tears from welling up. “You’re familiar with my three collections?”

“But of course.”

“And you liked my designs?”

“You have such a unique vision. I admired your work very much.”

She exhaled slowly, surprised, touched, grateful. “Thank you.”

“I was proud of you, my wife. I still am.”

The tears she’d been fighting filled her eyes and she didn’t know what affected her more—his words or his touch. “My short-lived career,” she said, struggling to speak, trying to sound light, mocking, but it had hurt, closing her business. She’d truly loved her work. Had found so much joy in her work and designs.

He caught one of her tears before it could fall. “I don’t think it’s over. I think you’re in the middle of a transition period, and it may feel like death, but it’s just change.”

“Well, death certainly is a change,” she answered, deadpan, flashing him a crooked smile, thinking she liked it when Drakon talked to her. She’d always liked his perspective on things. She found it—him—reassuring, and for her, this is how she connected to him. Through words. Language. Ideas.

If only they’d had more of this—time and conversation—perhaps she wouldn’t have felt so lost in Greece. Perhaps they’d still be together now.

He suddenly reached out and stroked her cheek with his thumb, making her heart turn over once again.

“I liked it when you smiled a moment ago,” he said gruffly, his amber gaze warm as he looked at her. “I have a feeling you don’t smile much anymore.”